Hearing the news of His 5th son the king fall into great despair.Commanted to get his son’s body

  .Little he knew, a headless,heartless body of his beloved son.the king rage into anger but quickly

  calms down.In his mind he thought to make this anger greater to him revenge is a dish that.

  The moon was a pale eye watching through lattice and shadow as the cat approached the door—

  the door he once vowed never to cross again. But tonight, he had no choice. The summons had

  come not with words, but with silence so cold it froze the bones.

  He padded in, body cloaked in silk, soul cloaked in dread.

  The chamber had not changed. It still breathed with perfumed decay, the scent of burned incense

  and old sin. The walls were covered in red—the king’s favorite color. Not for its passion, but its

  cruelty.

  And there he sat.

  The King.

  Golden-robed. Shadow-crowned.

  A god in a man’s body and a monster in a god’s skin.

  “Sit down, kitten,”

  he whispered, the words sticky with wine and memory,

  “Don’t pout. You knew this was coming.”

  The cat obeyed—because he always did. Because disobedience meant death… or worse.

  Fingers touched his cheek, slow as knives made of silk.

  “Tell me where the girl is,” the king said,

  “That wicked, thorn-tongued girl you dared call a queen.”

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  The cat trembled—not from fear of pain.

  From the memory of all the times he'd screamed and it meant nothing.

  “I… I do not know, sire.”

  A lie. A fragile, flammable thing.

  The king smiled the way wolves do.

  “I should've killed you when your tribe still breathed.

  But instead, I gave you this palace.

  This skin. This lie of freedom.”

  His voice dropped.

  “You owe me, kitten.”

  And with no further word, the king took what he always took—

  power from weakness.

  pleasure from horror.

  obedience from something that once was sacred.

  After the Violation

  The room was quiet again.

  The cat lay where he'd fallen—his breath ragged, soul unraveling thread by thread.

  The king straightened his robe.

  “When I find that bitch, I’ll carve her into the dirt.

  You’ll serve her heart to my hounds.

  And you’ll smile when you do it.”

  He left with the scent of wine and war trailing behind him.

  And the cat…

  Lay broken.

  But not empty.

  Because in the hollowed-out space of his body, something ancient stirred.

  Something that had once slept in him like a quiet curse.

  He closed his eyes, and for the first time in centuries, he prayed.

  Not to the gods. Not to the stars.

  To her.

  “Daughter of blood and fire…

  You who are cursed, you who cannot die…

  Burn this world for me